


now and then

by oh_simone



Category: teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Emotional Baggage, F/F, F/M, Genderswap, always-a-girl!Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-14
Updated: 2012-12-14
Packaged: 2017-11-21 04:02:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/593222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_simone/pseuds/oh_simone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deirdre Hale can see it, but pretends not to.<br/>[underage warning for past relationship, not present.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	now and then

**Author's Note:**

> Written prior to 2nd season.  
> mentions of past statutory rape and injured people.
> 
> Re: wolves. I really, really, really cannot stand the gross weird demented CG-ape things that is canon. I'm going to ignore that piece of canon, and pretend that werewolves turn into actual wolves, which a) is a way cooler mental image and b) makes for better cuddling.  
> Re: Kris vs Chris - I don't actually care either way? At some point, I thought I saw/read some official thing that mentioned the 'K' spelling, so that's what I used. Idk, maybe I hallucinated it.

This boy—yes, _boy_ , all flailing, panicking _human_ and Deirdre knows of no other animal on this earth capable of driving her insane with his utter _human-ness_ — reeks of an acrid cloud of hormones, fear, and distress, loud and jangling and chaotic. It sets her nerves on edge and her canines lengthen before she grits her teeth hard and forces herself to breathe evenly.

“Calm down,” she manages not to snarl, and Stiles’ mouth claps shut, but still gives her a highly offended look. “You’re making my head hurt.”

“I’m making—oh, _wow_ ,” he swears, flails, and Deirdre really wants to smack his head against the dash, except she’s done that before and she doesn’t think the car can take much more. “You realize that you called me, right? You realize that your psycho ex-girlfriend’s ex is carrying like, an entire armory of silver bullets and also a chip the size of Texas on her shoulder? There’s- there’s a _hole_ in you. And you’re telling me you have a _headache_?” His voice cracks on the tail end of that sentence, and she almost snorts, except he’s right. God _damn_ Kate Argent.

“I’m going to get out of this car,” she tells Stiles slowly, “and I’m going to run northwest, along the creek. You are going to drive towards town and call your dad and tell him you heard gunshots. And then you’re going to go home.”

He stares at her, and she’d be amused by the contortions of his expression had she not found him so infuriating. Finally, he settles on incredulous. “You’re insane,” he tells her. “You can’t leave this car.”

Unimpressed, she shoves the door open, but he scrambles over and grips her wrist before she can unbuckle the seat belt. Surprised, she looks at the mulish set of his chin.

“Look, Deirdre, you’re bleeding and sick—there’s no exit wound, so that silver must be burning through your rib cage right now—and if I’m going to call my dad anyways, it doesn’t make any sense for you to take off running.”

“Your dad is not fond of me,” she reminds him flatly, and he flails a hand at her, settling back into his seat and shifting out of park.

“He also has a better sense of priorities than most people,” he offers. “Don’t worry; we’ll get crazy ex’s crazy ex before he tries to arrest you.”

“Technically, that could apply to me,” she says stonily, but the glare he shoots her way is amusing enough in her weakened, light-headed state that she just smirks as she tries to hide how quickly she slumps into the seat. Judging from the lurch of the Jeep, she doesn’t succeed, but by then, her vision is wavering as the adrenaline begins to recede, and the pain of the gunshot wound flares stronger with each jolt of the vehicle, and they’re barely out a mile before she slips under.

_

Deirdre loves New York. She’d lived with Laura in this shitty Brooklyn walk-up with a broken radiator and a sputtering faucet that could never decide what temperature of water to cough up and was fond of changing its mind during showers. Their futons were shoved together in the single bedroom because there was no money for bedframes and during winter, they used to sleep as wolves, curled around each other because it was too cold otherwise. Still, after the too-big, too-quiet of Beacon Hills, Deirdre thought the city was freedom. She cut her hair off, shorter than she ever had, than her mother ever let her, bought a beat up leather jacket from Goodwill, and practiced smoking on the fire escape, first stubbing the cigarettes out in the neighbor’s potted plants when Laura got home, then passing them back and forth when her sister just sighed one evening and motioned for her to share. In New York, no one knew who they were. No one knew what she’d done, and what Kate Argent had done to her. Best of all, no one cared.

Deirdre Hale was sixteen when she fell in love with a smoker’s rasp and fearless green eyes. She turned seventeen the day Kate Argent fucked her behind the mechanic’s shop where she worked after school, all honey sweet words and deft, clever fingers. Afterwards, she remembers the scent of Kate’s hair pressed into her memory indelibly, and thought it was a blessing.

She’s twenty-three now, and Kate Argent is dead. So’s Laura, and Peter, and the smell of wisterias still makes her sick.  
_

 

“…waking up… water, Stiles.”

“Is she okay now?”

“Should be. The silver just needs to wash out of her system.”

Deirdre’s eyes snap open.

“Whoa!” Stiles echoes vaguely, but she’s already sitting up, panic translating into anger as the sharp, tangy scent of Kris Argent coalesces in her senses. Almost simultaneously, a wash of skin-prickling nausea rolls over her, and Stiles shoves a waste basket under her nose just in time. Vomit, black and stinking of bile and hot metal splatters against the plastic lining, and the sight of it only inspires more to come up. Her senses feel sore under her skin, eyes and nose streaming now, the acid stripping her throat raw. Rationally, she knows she should sit up, shake Stiles as ask him what the _hell_ was he thinking, asking Kris Argent, of all people here, but everything hurts and the poison in her system makes her entire body feel like Raggedy Ann. At some point, she realizes someone else is holding the trashcan in place, while propping her up. Of course it’s Stiles, she thinks tiredly, as her body gives one last exhausted shiver and finally sags, limp.

“Well,” Kris Argent says cheerfully, “that should be the worst of it.” She glares at him from behind the shaggy fringe of her hair and hopes he shoots himself next time he plays with his guns. But it’s true; the nausea is almost all gone, and while she can’t exactly run a mile at the moment, at least she doesn’t feel like passing out when she sits up.

“What did you do,” she rasps, struggling out from under the afghan to swing her legs down from the couch. Stiles looks offended.

“I saved your life,” he answers pointedly, handing her tissues. “Again.” He glares at her stubbornly, but Deirdre catches that whiff of anxiety beneath his bravado, an odd taint of concern, and it is awkward to realize that he’s _worried_ for her. She almost laughs, because a few months ago, Deirdre had been positive that the only future for her was to forge a new pack, a new family, and now, the only person to actually gives a fuck is the motor mouth who refuses to take the bite.

“I would’ve been fine,” she says roughly and straightens from the couch. Stiles’ eyes drop to her chest and then snap away, a blush crawling over his cheeks. Kris Argent is politely looking away. Uncomprehendingly, she glances down. Her shirt has been cut down the middle, revealing pale skin and the swell of her breasts. Thick white gauze bandages are wrapped around her torso; the wound under it twinges as she moves. She sighs tiredly and pulls the edges of her shirt together.

“Here,” Stiles says, handing over one of his flannel button ups. It’s loose around the shoulders and tight across her chest, but the buttons button and the warm material helps with the shakes.

“Listen,” Kris says seriously, “Mara shouldn’t have gone after you like that, and I’ll take care of it.” He starts packing things away in a black satchel—forceps, a vial of black powder, a roll of catgut, rubbing alcohol.

“Will you put her down?” she asks tonelessly, and both Stiles and Kris swivels to stare at her.

“Is that what you want?” Kris replies evenly after a tense moment. Deirdre blinks, slowly.

“She nearly killed the alpha of this territory, in direct defiance of our truce and broke the peace,” she points out coolly. “I think you’re a fool not to.”

Stiles laughs, high and nervous. Kris’ expression is hard and inscrutable, and he doesn’t fold.

“Mara won’t be a problem anymore,” he finally says, carefully enunciating each syllable. “On my word.”

She narrows her eyes at him, but Kris just looks grim and steely. It rankles her that she won’t get to spit on the bitch’s corpse. “If I so much as sniff her,” Deirdre says flatly, and Kris nods stiffly.

“You won’t. Good bye, Stiles.” Whatever tenuous peace they’ve had for the past half hour is gone.

He is too polite to slam the door, but Deirdre gets the idea anyways. Not that she cares—hunters suffer from an equal excess of ideals and hypocrisy, which makes them worthless by her count. Kris Argent may think he's settled some sort of debt owed, but Deirdre's not under the illusion that he won't turn around and shoot her point-blank the next time they cross. Her side aches; she tilts her head until it meets the back of the sofa, only half paying attention to the constant stream of noise coming from Stiles. She should tell him to shut up, but she’s suddenly tired and too weary to argue. The couch and the blanket are soft and smell of home and Stiles and warmth. So, she sleeps.  
_

 

“Is that your shirt?”

“What? Oh, uh. Yes. But not in a- okay, I know what it looks like-”

“And what, Stiles, does it look like?”

“Like. Like I spilled… soda on her shirt and let her borrow a clean one, and we decided to watch a movie, but then she fell asleep?”

Deirdre sighs herself to full consciousness and opens her eyes to Stiles and his dad in the living room, regarding her bemusedly. Night has fallen, and the sheriff flicks the living room light on as she sits up. “Sheriff,” she says out loud, voice still hoarse from sleep. Covertly she flexes her side; it seems the bullet wound is pretty much healed. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“It’s alright, Deirdre,” Stiles’ dad replies genially, though the wary look in his eyes bely his easy words. “I just wanted to know if you were staying for dinner.”

“I’ve got to get home,” Deirdre says automatically, at the same time that Stiles says, “Yeah, table’s set already.” They stare at each other, Stiles’ blinking wide eyes at her. When he starts to wilt with a faint air of kicked-puppy disappointment, she breathes out through her nose and forces a polite smile for Mr. Stilinski. “But half an hour wouldn’t hurt,” she adds lightly, and it’s almost worth it for the way Stiles grins, relieved and a little chuffed.

_

The thing is, Scott is sixteen, and Lydia is seventeen, and Deirdre really hates Uncle Peter for going so far off the deep end that he thought _teenagers_ of _all the people ever_ were great, _logical_ candidates for the foundation of a new pack. When Laura was still around, it had been Lo and Deeds, and vaguely, Uncle Pete whom they sent Christmas cards and birthday presents, but never visited. It had been _enough_ at a time when anyone else would have made it _too much_. They’d started talking about building a new pack though, as soon as Deirdre graduated from college and Laura got her pay raise. They were going to go somewhere totally new, sell off the old Hale land in Beacon Hills and buy up some remote ranch in quiet Montana far from people and cities. They’d even move out Uncle Pete with them, because pack needed to be together, in the end. Maybe, Deirdre had hoped, she might even one day be able to breathe without the crushing weight of her dead pack gripping tight her lungs.

Instead, she gets six acres of overgrown, haunted land and Scott, and Lydia, and Jackson, and Argents, and Stiles. Stiles, especially, who bitches and moans about his enduring terror for her, yet is the only one who ever dumps second servings of pasta on her plate and packs extra in Tupperware for her to take home.  
_

 

Deirdre manages to sit through forty minutes of dinner with Stiles and the sheriff, uncomfortably aware of how many unspoken things lie on the table between them. To his credit, the sheriff is unfailingly polite and seems more curious than suspicious, but she can’t help feeling like he’s trying to read more into her presence at his dinner table than she’s strictly comfortable with. Stiles doesn’t help, oscillating wildly between lacrosse and weather and the latest conspiracy theory to hit the internet forums. If it were just the two of them, Deirdre would have snapped—literally, a sharp, ringing snap of teeth against teeth—but as it is, she eats her dinner silently and only answers when directly asked a question. It isn’t until she’s shrugging on her jacket and stepping into her shoes that she realizes she’s just had the most normal dinner experience in over a year.

Stiles hands over the oversized Tupperware of leftovers and hovers awkwardly, hands mindlessly and frenetically twisting his keys around and around in his hand.

“I’ll drop you off,” he suggests in a half question, and Deirdre shrugs.

“I’m fine,” she says gruffly.

“Dude, it’s like eight, and you live in the woods. And usually I am all for long walks in the dark, but you just got shot by a psycho _in the woods_. Besides,” he adds, stiffly, like he’s about to say something offensive, “you’re a lady and I am trying to do the gentlemanly thing.”

Deirdre just stares. The irony of the situation is not lost on her. “Stiles,” she says, “shut up.” She pushes off the porch and starts walking, long, determined strides and ignores the squawk of surprise behind her.

“Hey, you’re welcome,” Stiles shouts at her back, but he does it from the safety of his doorway. Deirdre raises a hand in acknowledgment briefly, but doesn’t turn around.

She’s not oblivious—if it’s one thing the wolf in her is, it’s keen. She hears the rushed drumbeat of Stiles’ heart and scents the thready hint of attraction under the rest of his fear and annoyance. And chances are, she’s the first female besides his mother to have spent more than five consecutive minutes in his company without running away screaming. Plus the fact is that she’s not completely hideous, and it’s only a half-hearted surprise that he’s transferred most of his doomed crush on Lydia Martin to an even less attainable target. It’s almost sweet, if Deirdre were eight years younger and not an alpha; as it is, Deirdre just hopes it fades away eventually. He’s a good kid, never mind the unrelenting idiocy he spouts. He’s only sixteen. Even if—even if somehow, this crush is not just a crush, he’s only sixteen and so, so innocent. She remembers herself at that age, vividly and in Technicolor, the breathless dizziness of catching that someone’s eye and the hot blush at a slow, red smile. These are memories tainted with shame and guilt and thick, heavy grief, things that first love should never be, and it’s made Deirdre wary and oh-so careful. What happened to her—what Kate did. Nausea roils through her at the thought of the same happening to anyone else (especially- _especially_ Stiles).

So even if she were to scent more than typical teenage lust from his skin, even if occasionally he does stupidly chivalrous things for her (for _her_ , _Deirdre_ who’s as far from maidenly as possible) like offer to drive her home after dark, even if sometimes he makes her want to laugh, even if he bitches and moans and still welcomes her to his dinner table when no one else will, even if sometimes she thinks about being eight years younger and human, _even if_.

Deirdre hunches her shoulder forward against the night chill and tucks her chin down as she disappears into the forest.

 


End file.
